


Warrior's Honor

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII, The Last Remnant
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Crossover, Dangerous Ladies, F/F, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's had her share of narrow escapes, and still wears the reminders. "It must have been quite a battle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior's Honor

They are far from Archades in more ways than one, and Drace would have thought she might enjoy the change, but still she finds she's more on edge than she might have liked. When the young marquis -- a gracious host, for all that he is merciless at the negotiation table -- recommends a tavern in the old quarter of his city, she must admit the idea is tempting. It is Zecht's turn to attend Lord Vayne this evening, and Athlum is a fair city.

When the day's business is adjourned, the marquis seeming more exhilarated than frustrated after fencing terms with Lord Vayne all afternoon, Drace excuses herself. She has little patience with the word games they have played all day, and spending the evening in the castle for more seems the least appealing of her options. In the rooms the marquis has provided, she changes from her plate into a set of plain leathers that will less readily mark her as a foreigner -- her accent will do that soon enough, but she does not go out tonight to represent her country, so let her leave its symbols of office behind.

Athlum's Virtus Parish reminds Drace faintly of Bhujerba, if that city had not been cloudborne; it shares the close, narrow streets and the profusion of colors and scents that make Bhujerba seem welcoming and exotic. She asks directions of a qsiti, a strange race of broad-faced, waist-high creatures with long ears that hang down like a bangaa's. He -- she? Drace cannot tell what signs to look for -- offers assistance readily enough, in a flat, croaking tone. Drace bows her thanks, and takes her leave.

The Warrior's Honor is a good name for a tavern, though Drace has seen the inside of enough of them to know that the name is no guarantee as to its caliber. She pushes open the heavy door, and finds the interior...as welcoming as one could hope for, in a city so far from home. It's busy but not crowded, the patrons a mix of every race known to these shores -- every? perhaps not; she has yet to see another to match the warrior who introduced himself this morning as the leader of Athlum's generals. The patrons seem a friendly lot, for the most part; as Drace crosses to the bar she passes one explaining his strategy for dealing with the monsters of the local plains, and another telling the legend of the city's Remnant.

When she reaches the bar, the bartender looks her up and down -- impersonally, appraising her as a fighter, not as a woman -- and says, "I haven't seen Nora yet tonight. You're early."

"I think you mistake me for someone else," Drace says. "I don't know the name."

The bartender shrugs, unapologetic. "You look like her type," he says.

Drace wonders if this is some subtle political statement on the part of the marquis, or simply a sign of Athlum's different mores -- in Archades, certainly outside the old city, bars that cater to people of her proclivities are both scarce and well hidden. However it was intended, she finds she cannot take offense. She orders a pint of dark beer, and the bartender does look momentarily surprised at the shape of her coin, but Archadia's gil are minted pure, and gold is good almost everywhere.

She takes a table near the fire and sips her beer, listening to the conversations around her, wondering a bit about the mysterious Nora. There are not many women here, as best she can tell, though the other races are even more a mystery here than at home. Not everyone shares her awkwardness; at the next table there is a raw-boned man apparently making advances to a yama, sliding his hand up a muscular, scaled arm. The yama's tail swishes back and forth -- pleasure? amusement? impatience? Drace doubts she will be in Athlum long enough to learn all the subtleties.

"Is this seat free?" someone asks, and Drace looks up. She recognizes the woman at once by the bold sweep of scar across her face: Emma Honeywell, the only hume -- no, the word they use here is _mitra_ \-- among Athlum's generals.

"By all means," Drace says, gesturing to the chair across from her. "I wasn't the only one who needed a break after today's session, I see."

General Honeywell's brow furrows momentarily; her scar makes the expression severe. "Forgive me," she says. "Were you with the ambassador's party?"

Drace holds out her hand. "Judge Drace Merlose," she says. "Not that I can fault you for not recognizing me -- plenty of my own countrymen would be unable, when I'm out of uniform."

"It is rather striking," General Honeywell says. She takes Drace's hand; her grip is confident but not arrogant, sure enough to no longer need to prove her strength. "Call me Emma." She takes her seat, clearly comfortable here. Athlum, Drace thinks, continues to make a favorable impression.

Over the first pint they talk pleasantries -- Athlum's history, how Archades is different, the particulars of crossing the sea. Over the second they feint briefly in the direction of the current diplomatic endeavors of their respective lords, and then discover they both have more enthusiasm for a discussion of campaigns they've waged. Over the third, Drace asks after Emma's scar.

"I was young and foolish," Emma says, shaking her head. "Seeking glory, and what I found instead was a guardian Remnant that nearly killed me."

"But only nearly," Drace says. She's had her share of narrow escapes, and still wears the reminders. "It must have been quite a battle."

"In the end, I had to be rescued," Emma admits. She smiles wryly. "By the most beautiful woman I had ever seen."

"That sounds very romantic," Drace dares.

"It was," Emma says. "It didn't last -- I don't think she could have been happy spending her life with a warrior. But the year we were together was a happy one." She rubs the scar where it crosses the bridge of her nose; drinking has made it more livid. "And I'll always have the memento of our meeting."

"I think it looks dashing," Drace says.

Emma arches an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have thought you easily impressed," she says. "A soldier of your experience must have scars of her own."

Drace meets her steel-gray eyes steadily. It's plain enough why they're both here, isn't it? "No place where I can easily show them off in taverns."

She knew the challenge would likely be well received, but it's still gratifying to watch the heat spark in Emma's eyes. "Perhaps we should return to the castle, then," Emma says. "I can think of one or two places where we wouldn't be disturbed."

"Then lead the way," Drace says, rising from her chair. The bartender smirks as they pass, but the dark-haired young man assisting him gives Emma what looks like a completely genuine smile, as though he's pleased by her luck. Drace wonders briefly whether she's met a particular standard, or if he's simply pleased to see Emma find some company, but she doesn't dwell on it for long. It's much more rewarding simply to watch Emma move, to follow her through Virtus Parish's narrow streets back toward the town square; she's alert, confident, her stride brisk and sure. The set of her shoulders makes Drace want to peel her leathers off to trace the lines of muscle underneath.

The castle is still awake when they return, lamps lit and guards on duty in its hallways; the men salute as they pass, ask no questions about Drace's presence. Emma must enjoy her lord's trust, to be able to bring strangers into the castle's private wing without even a challenge.

She betrays no sign of their purpose in coming here as they walk through the halls, makes no advances until she has ushered Drace into her private rooms and latched the door securely behind them. Then she turns, and the smile that lights her face is fierce, challenging. "I trust you'll stop me if I presume," she says.

Drace watches the changes in Emma's stance, and braces herself, returning the smile. "Don't hold back on my account," she answers.

Emma's advance is not quite a lunge, but has plenty of force behind it, crushing her mouth to Drace's hungrily. Were she less prepared, Drace would stagger, would find herself pinned to the door, but she was expecting no less; instead she catches Emma around the waist and pivots, so she's the one doing the pinning. Emma laughs into her mouth, bites her lower lip almost fiercely enough to draw blood. Drace growls, presses one knee between Emma's muscular thighs, and is rewarded with Emma's hands carding through her hair to pull. She lets Emma's grip pull her back from the kiss, and raises one hand to cup Emma's face, brushing the ball of her thumb over the end of the scar.

"You had some to show me," Emma says.

"I did," Drace says.

It would be quicker, simpler, to attend to their own buckles and laces, but that matters little to either of them; they are each too easily distracted by the closeness, by each new handsbreadth of revealed skin to touch, to taste. Their clothes fall to the carpet piecemeal, baring the marks both of battle and of time: there are soft lines just visible on the skin of Emma's belly that speak of an old pregnancy, and Drace knows that her own breasts, unbound, don't sit quite so high as they did a decade ago. But there is nothing but admiration on Emma's face, and Drace's blood beats hot with need.

She follows Emma to bed, and there they do show their scars, trading the stories that attend them: Drace recalls the riot in old Archades, the suicidal attacker whose knife slipped between the plates of her armor before her mace felled him; Emma wraps warm hands around her ribs and bends to lick the ridged, white line. Emma turns her back to show the place where a beastman, part of a squadron of reinforcements, drove a spear into her shoulder; Drace mouths the tight knot that remains, and digs her thumbs into the muscle between Emma's shoulderblades. Drace has an old set of parallel lines along her left arm, the gouges of a coeurl's claws when she was a young soldier on patrol; Emma kisses each one, faded though they be. Emma's left thigh is mottled with burns from the acidic spittle of a dagon; Drace slides down between her legs and nuzzles at them, making her way slowly upward.

And when she moves upward further still, parting the damp curls between Emma's thighs to taste, Emma's moan is throaty and low, intoxicating. "More," she says, "your hand, also," and Drace obliges, pressing her fingers into slick, clutching heat. She stays there, coaxing sweet sounds and wracking shudders, until Emma's fingers in her hair drag her away instead of holding her still, and then it is no hardship to let herself be rolled onto her back, to be pinned by Emma's strength. When Emma reaches down between her legs, Drace shakes her head once. "Like this?" Emma asks, fingers pressed between her folds but no longer seeking entrance.

"Thank you," Drace says, "yes." She lets her head fall back, and Emma leans in to mouth at her pulse there, to bite at the line of her collar bone, fingers tracing firm, steady circles. Drace lets herself give in, arches closer and allows herself these moments of pure selfish pleasure, and Emma's skillful touch brings her to a shivering, fierce climax, her moans scarcely muffled in the soft fall of Emma's hair.

She leans in for another kiss afterward, slower now and more thorough. It has been too long since she allowed herself to indulge in another's touch, and Emma's body is a luxury against hers, muscle and bone, smooth skin and rough scars.

But her time is not truly her own, on this visit, and after a few moments Drace pulls back. "I would be happy to stay," she says, "but I fear I should not. The rest of my party will expect my return."

Emma nods. "Of course," she says. She smiles. "Generally I have little patience for drawn-out negotiations, but in this case...I find I would not be disappointed if it took some time for your lord and mine to reach an agreement."

"Nor I," Drace says, returning the smile; she will have hard negotiations of her own ahead of her, if she wishes to convince Zecht to cover more evenings so she can enjoy this liaison, but she'll find a way. "And if they are too quick to conclude their business, well. A Judge Magister is permitted a personal leave of absence, on occasion. With relations between our peoples so cordial...."

"Athlum would be happy to see you return," Emma says, "and so would I."


End file.
